Lost Acquaintance
by TheMidnightAssassin
Summary: When a mysterious stranger claiming to be from TFI pays a visit to both the RED and BLU spies, an offer is made to both to make a choice between their longstanding partnership, or their jobs with RED and BLU. Rated T for violence and language.
1. The Contract

A rocket exploded off to the left. With a start, the BLU Spy pressed himself against a nearby crate. Nothing he'd done before could ever have prepared him for his job with BLU. Right now, he was running about a sawmill evading a mini gun wielding maniac, a rocket launching imbecile and a psychotic German. All while invisible.

Weaving past the saw blade, Spy sprinted the length of the room and tiptoed quickly up the enemy staircase. He uncloaked and crouched low on the rooftop. Careful not to slip from the roof's peak, Spy crept to the edge and looked over. So far, no one. The RED engineer must have been stationed inside. Good. He'd be a much easier target there.

From the edge, he backed up slightly and slid down to the left side of the roof. Across a small gap was the roof set perched directly above the two intelligence room entrances. In a calculated leap, he jumped from his rooftop to the next. Then, just below him, was the RED Pyro. Heart racing, he drew his knife and dove from the roof. The pyro didn't even have time to flinch as he drove the blade between its shoulders. Spy stood with a satisfied smile. Rarely did he get such a perfect opportunity.

The RED's body disappeared and Spy used his disguise kit to take its place. Giddy from his kill, Spy hurried to the Intel room to find the RED engineer reclining amongst his nest of sentries.

"Howdy Pyro," he said, "Slow day ain't it?"

Spy nodded.

A muffled alarm rang out from the engineer's pocket, "Awh hell," he said, jumping to his feet. The engineer rushed for the door, then turned back.

"Watch these for me."

Spy gave a thumbs up as he'd seen Pyro do and Engie scurried off. Spy waited several seconds before taking out his sapper and placing one on each sentry. A smug smile adorning his face, Spy removed his disguise and moved in to take the intelligence. For one reason or another, the RED engineer hadn't become very god at spy checking yet. Then again, it was their first month on the job and he didn't seem like a man well accustomed to battle.

Suddenly, a gloved hand covered his mouth and nose. He tried for a second to fight back, but a knife had already slit his throat.

* * *

The second Spy respawned, he fired off a slew of curse words in various languages.

"Something bothering you?" Medic asked in an Austrian accented German.

"That damned RED Spy!" He yelled.

"I thought you two were friends."

"We are! I mean, not at work, but socially, yes."

The Austrian slung the Kritzkreig back over his shoulder and loaded a bolt into his crossbow. He took a small whetstone from his pocket and ran it along the edge of his über saw.

"I still don't see what the problem is," he said.

Spy clenched his fists at his side, "Every time I make an attack on the intelligence. Every time I get close to completing my mission, there he is! And there I am. Dead. Look through the kill feed and you'll see what I mean."

Medic nodded and sheathed his saw, "I'll take your word for it...we should get back to work."

Spy's shoulders slumped and he followed the doctor back into battle.

That night, Spy packed his last box and officially moved from the room he shared with the engineer into his own room. It wasn't so much that he didn't enjoy the Texan's company as it was the privacy he enjoyed in his own space.

He sat on the edge of his bed. He had to find a way to get back at the RED Spy. It shouldn't have been that hard, they'd known each other for years. They'd been together through a variety of missions and tests. Hell, Françoir was the only partner he'd ever had, and while they never had personal conversations, he knew enough about the man to at least be able to enact revenge.

 _But that would be cruel and unprofessional_. he reminded himself. One thing Françoir had been sure of was to teach Phillippe professionalism. He had to have control, be polite, be efficient and above all, be humane. For reasons Phillippe never understood, Françoir emphasized granting his victims a merciful death. Phillippe disagreed strongly, but followed his mentor's orders even when he wasn't around.

A light rap on the door broke Phillippe's concentration.

"Come in," he said, standing and fixing his tie.

A tall, dark skinned man entered the room.

"Hello," he said.

Spy moved to draw is revolver.

"There will be no need for that," the man said, "I'm with BLU. You see, we've recently observed your performance on the battle field and, well, let's just say we're not impressed. Your constant failure at the hand of the enemy spy leads us to believe that you are unfit for the position you currently hold. However, you are being given a singular chance to redeem your mistakes if you can out preform your opponent for a week."

"Really? I…"

"Get the job done by any means necessary or you won't be working for BLU much longer."

"Yes, I understand."

The man pulled a long-barreled hand gun from his coat, "Oh, and Mr. Picaro, failure will result in permanent termination. Have a good night."

At that, the man fired off his weapon and a single dart sent Spy into deep sleep.

* * *

"BS," Soldier said as Spy placed his last card in the pile.

Spy smiled slightly and gestured to the pile of cards, inviting Soldier to check for proof. Soldier snatched the top card up, glared at it and swept the pile from the table.

"You French bastard!"

Spy chuckled lightly as a flurry of cards rained down on him.

"Oh Soldier," he said, "perhaps one day you'll be able to best me in a game of cards, but, I highly doubt it."

With a laugh, Spy stood and left the room. Immediately, he walked to the library. By far the room was his favorite on base. It was quiet and well kept. Furthermore, only he, Medic, Heavy, and Engineer ever even entered the library and all they did was read or work quietly. It was a nice break form the loud and chaotic setting of the rest of the day. This time though, when Spy entered the library, there was an unfamiliar face.

"Hello," a tall, dark skinned man said.

Spy drew his revolver and aimed it at the man's head.

"Please," the man said, "there will be no need for that. I'm with RED. You see, we've recently observed your performance on the battlefield and, well, we're impressed. Not only have you helped to guarantee victory for RED, but you've also managed to best your BLU counterpart in near every match. As a reward for such excellent performance, we'd like to offer you a raise, but only if you can manage to best your counterpart this week."

Spy returned his revolver to his jacket, "And if I fail?"

"You will have a third of your pay cut."

"I understand."

"Excellent. Have a good night Mr. Dufort."

With that, the man drew a long-barreled hand gun from his coat and fired a single dart that sent Spy into a deep sleep.


	2. Catalyst

**So, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that my writer's block has official been cured (for now). The bad news, though, is that my editor will be in Thailand for a few months, so I currently have no editor...**

 **Anyway, I hope this chapter goes well and that you enjoy it!**

* * *

Once again, it was raining at the Sawmill base. Despite the fact, the two teams of nine were still expected to fight each other through the rain and mud. Yet, though conditions were poor, most of the RED team didn't mind the rain.

"I honestly don't see vhy ve have to go out in zhe rain. It's just going to be one big mess out zhere. I'll probably get stuck in zhe mud and my medigun von't vork, and my coat vill be filthy, and Archimedes vill be filthy, and..."

"Doktor, is not big deal. Do not complain," Heavy said as he retrieved a belt of minigun ammo and slung it over his body like a pageant sash.

Medic hefted the medigun onto his back, "It is a big deal, Heavy. _Some_ of us prefer to look professional. Vouldn't you agree, Herr Spy?"

Spy didn't respond from his place leaned against the windowsill.

"Ahem, I said; vouldn't you agree zhat it is unprofessional to go out and become filthy in zhis mud and rain?"

Spy's eyes flicked briefly in Medic's direction, but he remained silent. He was too busy mulling over the previous night to involve himself in whatever Heavy and Medic were going on about. Besides, he wasn't all that put together today anyway. When the sleeping dart had finally worn off, he'd barely had enough time to change into a clean uniform and grab a glass of water before pushing the flyaway hairs beneath his mask and running to the supply room to wait for the day's battle to start. Since he'd had a moment of peace, he'd taken to staring out into the rain partly to consider the man's offer, and partly to keep anyone from remarking on his unshaven face.

"Alrighty fellas," Engineer said as he strode to the center of the room, "Let's stop arguin about the rain and get ready to fight in it."

Medic gave a groaning sigh and moved to his starting position beside Heavy.

Engineer glanced over to Spy and considered telling him to ready up, but decided against it.

The voice of the Administrator came over the intercom, "Mission begins in ten seconds."

The mood in the room shifted as everyone prepared to rush into battle.

"Yo Spy, you gonna join us, or just keep havin a midlife crisis?"

Spy turned slightly to Scout, "Worry about yourself, Scout, or you might trip over your own feet from concentrating too hard."

Scout muttered something under his breath about scraggly old men and prepared himself for battle.

"Five, four, three, two, one! Mission begins."

At the call of the Administrator, eight mercenaries rushed onto the battlefield with cries of war. Spy lagged behind and waited a few minutes to pull himself away from the window to join the battle.

Once outside the resupply room, Spy ran up onto the roof of the RED base to assess the situation. Medic and Heavy were engaged in heated combat with the BLU Soldier and Scout in the middle saw building. Down below, Pyro swept the area for any sign of the BLU team. Off to the right on the RED balcony, Sniper was crouched low with his rifle poised to shoot anything that ran down the hill. Spy took another careful scan of the area to look for one thing in particular.

Soon, he spotted it. Creeping along the edge of the building was a patch where the rain failed to hit the ground and instead revealed an invisible, spy shaped absence.

Spy averted his eyes from the patch, but kept it in his peripheral vision as he moved to the roof of the lower shed. He saw the cloaked spy dart under the covered walkway beneath him. In response, Spy moved onto his toes and crept to the edge of the walkway cover. There, he leapt down and felt the enemy spy crash into him.

Instantly, Spy lashed out and grabbed his shorter BLU double by the neck. The BLU gasped and dropped his cloak before hissing a very faint 'dammit'. Then, he moved his arms up to grab his assailant, but the RED reacted first and jabbed him just below the sternum to cause his hands to fly down to rub the injured area.

"What do you want?" He spat.

Spy casually dropped him and brushed his hand off on his soaked pants leg, "I simply wish to know if you've received any sort of unexpected visitor recently."

The BLU rubbed his neck, "That's none of your business."

"Oh but I think it is my business, Monsieur Picaro."

He recoiled slightly, "That was you?"

"No. I would not waste my time visiting your base to send a few messages."

The BLU Spy stood still for several minutes before attempting to throw a punch at the RED. With a faint sigh, Spy grabbed the blue suited arm and twisted it behind its owner's back.

"Stop acting like a child. If you wish to kill me, do it correctly. Allow me to demonstrate."

The RED Spy drew a revolver and delivered a single clean shot to his double's temple.

He almost pitied the BLU as he watched the limp body crumple to the ground. If he had been given the same offer, then there was no way for him to succeed. He was far too young and inexperienced, especially in the spy field. He missed a great deal in his observations, and always had to fight the urge to act impulsively as opposed to acting with calculation.

The RED Spy sighed. Though he knew his counter would fail, he hoped that, at the very least, the young man would learn something over the course of the week.

* * *

"I'm taking the rest of the day off," Spy announced as he strode from the BLU respawn.

Medic glanced up from refilling the formula of his medigun backpack, "Really? On what grounds?"

Spy walked close to Medic and whispered in his ear, "Well I feel as though I'm experiencing a, disturbance, in my lower abdomen region and I'm afraid I-"

Medic pushed him away, "No, I don't want to hear it, just go. I'll put you in for sick leave."

Spy smiled, "Thank you doctor."

Quickly, he exited the battle area and entered the living area of the BLU base. He picked up the secured phone line from the common area wall and dialed an ever familiar number.

"Ciao, Serafino."

A low growl resonated from the other end of the line, "What do you want Philippe?"

Spy twirled the phone cord between his fingers, "Is that really how you're going to greet your brother when he gives you a friendly call?"

"Hah, you only ever call if you want something _Frenchman_ "

Spy clucked his tongue disapprovingly, "Tu sais Papa préfère que nous parlons en français."

"Don't speak to me in that damned foreign tongue, Philippe! I can feel mama rolling in her grave."

"Please, she was the one who _liked_ the move to France."

"Enough," Serafino boomed, "tell me why the hell you've called or I'll send someone over to rip your spine out your stomach."

Spy sighed, "Fine. I called because I need advice."

Serafino's tone lightened, "Finally come to learn from your big brother, eh? Well, what sort of advice do you need?"

"I have an enemy I need to eliminate. Well, he's more of an old friend of mine, really."

"Yes...and why is this a problem? You're perfectly capable of eliminating one man."

"Do you remember Christmas ten years ago?"

Serafino paused for several moments, "He's Dufort, isn't he?"

"Yes."

Serafino chuckled, "You can kiss your mission success goodbye then."

Philippe groaned, "I thought you were going to help me."

"Relax, I am. Look, you're not going to beat him in traditional combat. That much is a given. To beat him, you'll have to find some way to break him and throw him off guard. Get personal, be impulsive, anything that will give him a moment of hesitation and allow you to gain an advantage. Fight dirty if you have to Philippe. You're a Picaro, show that French bastard that you are not a man to be messed with. If you want to win more than him, then you will, understand?"

Spy nodded, then realized the gesture couldn't be seen through the phone, "Yes, I understand."

"Good. To help you out, I'll express mail you a very _delicate_ file that'll help you even the playing field."

Spy's face contorted to a twisted grin, "Thank you Serafino."

"Anytime, Philippe. Arrivederci."

"Ciao," Spy said as he replaced the phone on the receiver.

Whistling softly to himself, Spy returned to his room to have a long nap before Serafino's package arrived.


	3. Near Misstep

**Alright, so, there's something I should really address, and that's that this fic deals with two spies fighting each other who are both refereed to as Spy. If any part becomes difficult to figure out who exactly is doing what, then please tell me so I may correct it. Thank you.**

 **(Note: This should no longer be a problem in about a chapter or two.)**

* * *

 **BLU Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 2**

Spy marched into Medic's lab and slammed his palms down on his desk, "I need a lethal injection."

Medic barely flinched at Spy's sudden arrival and looked up as he adjusted his glasses, "No."

"I don't think you understand, doctor, I _need_ that injection."

Medic stood and went about the room, searching the medical cabinets, "Spy, I don't care what you're feeling, or what you're going through, I'm not going to assist you with a suicide attempt."

Spy broke into a fit of laughter that gained him a concerned look from Medic.

"I'm not going to kill myself," he said once he'd regained his composure, "And I don't wish for the respawn canceling one either. No, I simply want a syringe full of enough lethal injection to kill a man of, oh, say, 63 kilos."

Medic arched an eyebrow, "And why would I give you that?"

"Because doctor, I need it to make a point."

Medic crossed his arms, "Oh do you now? And who exactly do you plan on killing?"

Spy sneered, "A friend."

Medic sighed and went to a cupboard to fill a small syringe.

Spy studied him as he worked. He'd never quite figured out if it was apathy, weakness, or a general disregard for the fate of others that made the Austrian doctor so easy to convince. Then again, he mused, perhaps it was a combination of all three.

"Here," Medic said as he offered Spy a syringe, "But if you use it on any member of BLU, I will personally rip the respawn chip from your throat."

Spy nodded and took the syringe up to his room to prepare for battle.

* * *

"Spy, get your ass to the BLU intelligence room now! There are sentries here and I do not see you sapping them!"

Spy touched the communicator in his ear to stop the sound of the yelling American.

With only minor resistance, he pulled his knife from the back of the enemy sniper, turned around, and ran across the wood boards bordering the top of the chain-link fence dividing the RED and BLU territories. At the board's end, he hopped over the top of the fence and landed on the other side with catlike grace.

From there, he chose the disguise of a demo and rushed into the tunnel adjoining a large pool of water near the BLU base.

"Going somewhere?"

Spy smiled faintly to himself as he turned on his heel to face his counterpart, "As a matter of fact, I am."

The BLU Spy watched him carefully, "You know how odd it is to hear your voice coming from Demoman's mouth."

"Ah yes, I suppose so," he said in a perfect imitation of the BLU Demo.

The BLU chuckled, then whipped out his revolver and fired twice.

Having partially anticipated the move, Spy dodged to the side, kicked off the wall and slammed his foot into the BLU's neck.

The BLU Spy fell to the floor, but managed to draw his knife as he did so.

Above him, the RED had already drawn his revolver. He took a hasty shot to his enemy's arm, then re-aimed to take a better shot.

The BLU Spy shrieked and used his still functioning hand to drive a modified hidden blade into the exposed patch of black sock on the RED's right leg.

Spy growled and kicked away the blue cuffed weapon. The kick came too late, however, as the damage had already been done. After a moment, he felt his heart rate slow.

"What did you do to me?" He whispered as glared at the BLU Spy.

The BLU cackled through a whimper caused by shifting over his arm, "You'll seen soon enough."

Spy stumbled back and his fingers involuntarily dropped his revolver as his blood turned to lead in his veins. Spy felt his body shake violently, then stop. After a while, his legs gave out and he slumped into a still heap. Every shortening breath he drew felt like fire being drawn into his body. He wanted to let out some form of scream to ease the pain, but he couldn't speak or move. All he could do was listen to the cackle of his opponent until the world, and all its sounds and smells, went black.

* * *

 **BLU Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 3**

Spy paced the floor of the resupply room. Something was wrong. All day, he hadn't caught the slightest glimpse of the RED Spy. Not when he'd stolen the RED intelligence, not when he'd sapped the RED sentries, and not even when he stabbed the RED Heavy, Medic and Soldier in rapid succession. Not one of those instances had caused the enemy spy to appear. Was he trying to lull him into a sense of false security only to viscously take it away at the last second? Or was he trying to play to his ingrained paranoia and fool him with a bit of psychological torture before delivering a series of quick kills.

Spy bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He couldn't stand not knowing the RED's plan. He was a spy, he was supposed to know his enemies and their plans, yet, here he was, pacing like a madman as he tried to decipher the situation.

"Eh, is something wrong, spook?"

Spy visibly jumped at the sound of Sniper's voice.

Sniper chuckled, "Relax, it's just me."

"I don't appreciate being snuck up on," Spy snapped, "That's my job."

"Whatever you say, Spy."

Spy watched as Sniper stride toward the battlefield, "Wait, Sniper."

Sniper stopped and looked back at Spy, "What?"

"Would you happened to have encountered the RED Spy today?"

Sniper shook his head, "Not at all. He usually gets in a couple backstabs by now."

Spy nodded slowly, "Indeed."

He pushed his way past Sniper so he could get out onto the battlefield.

"The least you could do is say thank you!" Sniper called.

Spy stuck his arm out behind himself and stuck his middle finger high into the air. He snickered lightly as he felt the marksman's glare on his back. For as much as he disliked Sniper, he knew the quiet Swede's report was accurate, which meant it was time to investigate. If Sniper wasn't getting stabbed, then something was going on with the RED Spy that went beyond a simple trick for his BLU counterpart.

Spy picked his way across the battlefield and into the RED base. Whatever his enemy was planning, it was something big. Nothing else would have caused him to take a day off work, except-

Spy froze as he passed by the RED infirmary. There, lying on a cot shoved up against the wall was the RED Spy.

Fear started to collect at the pit of Spy's stomach as he approached the RED. Something had gone horribly wrong. The RED Spy lay completely still, and not even his chest moved up and down with breath. Spy inched closer. Perhaps his eyes were tricking him. There was no way the RED Spy was _not_ breathing. Slowly, Spy pressed to fingers to other man's neck and waited.

After a few moments, he pulled away. There was no pulse.

Spy backed away with shaking hands. Françoir couldn't actually be dead. Sure, Spy had meant to kill the RED, but not permanently. It was supposed to be a simple warning, nothing more. Now, as realization hit him, he felt sick and dizzy.

Trembling, he sank into a plastic chair beside the cot.

* * *

 **Sicily, Italy, 1942**

Philippe waited around impatiently for Aldo to return. This was it, his chance to prove himself. If he could rough this man up enough for him to give up a few secrets, then Serafino would finally move him up a bit in terms of respect, and maybe even in rank.

Philippe turned sharply as he heard the door open behind him.

"Here we are Philippe," Aldo said as he tossed a man on the concrete floor, "We caught this scum snooping about one of the safe houses. Find out who he is and what he knows. And remember, if he's an intelligence agent of any sort, leave him for me."

Philippe nodded, "I'll get the job done."

"Let's hope so," Aldo said as he closed and locked the door.

Philippe looked down at the man and kicked his side.

"Get up," he snarled.

The man shifted himself up into his knees and stood quickly, despite having his hands zip tied behind his back.

Philippe frowned. The man was older and taller than he'd expected.

He glared at the man, "I meant on your knees, not standing."

He complied and dropped to his knees, all the while carefully studying Philippe.

"What's your name?"

The man gave a slight smile, "John Smith."

Philippe kicked the man's chest, "No, your real name."

"John Doe."

Philippe grunted in frustration and stamped his foot down on the man's thigh, "I want your real name now!"

The man simply chuckled, "You're not very well suited for this, are you?"

Philippe crossed his arms, "What do you mean, filth?"

"I mean, you're not the type to beat a man into submission. You're someone who prefers a more tactful approach. In fact, if I didn't know better, I might even tag you as the assassin type."

Philippe raised an eyebrow. Assassin, he liked the sound of that title. It was far better than _picciotti_.

"Elaborate."

The man arched his thin eyebrows to adjust to the smile forming on his face, "Everyone has their own form of intimidation. This setting clearly does not play to your form. As an assassin, however, you should be able to intimidate people with mere skill and a blade. Does that sound like something you'd be interested in?"

"Yes, I would, but you'd have to teach me how."

The man seemed startled by the sudden proposition, but only for a brief moment before his face returned to a neutral expression, "Really? And what makes you say I myself am an assassin?"

Philippe smiled slyly, "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd tag you as the assassin type."

The man stood with a sigh, "You're learning."

He presented his tied hands to Philippe, "Now, if you would be so kind as to remove these, I can give you a proper assassin's lesson."

Philippe nodded and drew a pair of wire cutters from the pocket of his jacket. Carefully, he positioned them over the plastic tie binding the man's wrists. With minimal effort, he cut the tie and stood back with an eager grin on his face.

He would never stop chastising himself for being so ignorant.

The moment the man's hands were free, he spun around, grabbed Philippe's arm and twisted it behind his back. Philippe muffled a cry of pain as the man shoved him against the wall.

"Do you have a name, boy?" He asked as a whisper in Philippe's ear.

"P-Philippe Picaro," He sputtered through shortening breaths.

Without another word, the man dropped him and disappeared out the room's back door. Meanwhile, Philippe lay flat on his back, gasping for air as he tried his best not to throw up from the mix of shame and failure mounting in his stomach.

* * *

 **June, 1955**

Philippe laid his head down on his desk. Exactly two customers had entered the small office building that day, which meant he had an awful lot of free time. Enough time to finish paperwork, make all his superiors coffee and fold a large number of paper scraps into a flock of colorful birds. Having run out of both paper and superiors in need of coffee, the receptionist had simply taken to dozing on the once sparkling front desk.

"Hello, I'm looking for a young man of about your build with bright red hair and emerald eyes."

Philippe jumped so hard he knocked two of the three phones off his desk. Heart hammering, he turned to face the voice.

Standing before him was a tall man in a crisp navy blue pinstripe suit and an identically colored balaclava to match.

Philippe's mind blanked, and all he could think to say was, "Would you mind holding? I have a call on the other line."

A slight smile broke the neutral expression from the man's face, "Would I happen to be speaking with Philippe Picaro?"

Philippe scrambled to pick up the dropped phones while keeping his eyes on the man, "Yes, I am. What can I do for you?"

"I've come to make good on an offer I made quite some time ago."

Philippe's brow furrowed as he tried to place where he'd first met the man, "Eh, I'm not quite sure what you're talking about Signore..."

The man gave a subtle nod, "Monsieur Dufort."

"Dufort, yes. Eh, what is this, 'offer' you mentioned?"

"I'm not sure if you recall a meeting thirteen years ago in which you attempted to interrogate me, and well, let's just say it didn't go very well for you."

Philippe's eyes widened, "Wait, that was you? You know that encounter left me with this dull desk job and a complete stagnation in my rank."

Monsieur Dufort simply shrugged, "That's of no importance now. The real question is whether or not you'd like to learn the skills of a true killer."

"You mean you're actually offering to teach me?"

Monsieur Dufort nodded.

Philippe smiled broadly. The opportunity was exactly what he needed to get back on his feet in the criminal world. If he could just master the skills of an assassin, then he would certainly be moved back up in his family's ranks and perhaps even challenge Serafino. Yet, in the back of his mind, he had one burning question that prevented him from immediately jumping on the offer, "Why?"

"To put it simply, as I take on larger tasks, I find myself more in need of an accomplice. Something about you makes me believe you'll fit the positon perfectly. That is, if you're up to the task."

Philippe shot out of his chair and leaned forward on his desk, "Yes, anything to get me out of this desk job. Please, I want to be out in the field, slitting throats, not stuck here sorting paperwork."

Monsieur Dufort put up a hand and gestured for Philippe to relax, "We'll get to that, eventually. First, we'll meet tonight to discuss several crucial matters before we get to killing anyone. I'll contact you beforehand on the location and time of the meeting. Until then, have a good day."

RED Base Infirmary; Sawmill

Spy was reminiscing quietly in his plastic chair when he was violently wrenched back to reality by a loud gasp. He looked around frantically before his eyes settled on the RED Spy, who was sitting straight up and breathing heavily.

Spy bolted to his feet and came to the other spy's side.

Just as he got there, the RED collapsed onto the bed and back into motionlessness.

Spy rocked back on his heels in relief. He was alive. Somehow, miraculously, the RED Spy was alive. Clearly he was fighting for a thin thread of life, but that thread was there and that was what really mattered. Spy hadn't been responsible for his RED counterpart's death.

"We have taken the enemy intelligence."

Spy flinched at the sound of the Administrator's voice resonating off the walls of the infirmary. He knew it was time to disappear and return to the battlefield he'd been away from for far too long. At least, though, he could leave with the reassurance that his opposition would soon return so he could complete his contract.

* * *

 **Well, that wasn't too bad (maybe). Anyway, up next, "Sicily, 1955, Christmas Eve"**


	4. A Deal With the Devil

**I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this story, and anyone who has reviewed it (especially you annons!) you lot are the reason I write anything ever on this site.**

* * *

 **RED Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 4**

With a sharp intake of breath, Spy sat up and tried to calm his racing heart. Everything around him was out of focus, and a dull ringing noise dominated his hearing. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Soon, his senses cleared and he was met with the sound of Medic's voice.

"Spy, you're alive! Good zhing too, I vas just about to do an autopsy."

Instinctively, Spy's hand flew to the base of his neck to ensure his suit and mask were still on. Much to his relief, Medic hadn't attempted to remove any of his cloths for examination yet.

Medic exchanged his knife for a clipboard, "Alright, since you've been dead for two days, I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding your current state and vhat you experienced up to now."

Spy's eyebrows disappeared beneath his mask, "Two days?"

Medic nodded, "Ja, you came zhrough respawn completely still. Heavy insisted I take you back to zhe infirmary to see if you'd vake. Heh, turns out his hunch vas right. I just assumed you vere dead for good."

Spy stood shakily, "Then return to medical school at once because I am certainly not dead."

"Vell, I'm glad to see you retained your pleasant attitude."

Spy straightened his tie in an attempt to still his trembling hands. Pulling his shoulders back, he strode towards the door.

Medic grabbed his arm, "Vhere do you zhink you're going? You vere just dead, heart stopped and everyzhing. You owe me an examination."

"I owe you nothing," Spy snarled as he pulled his arm free.

Medic grabbed his arm again with an iron grip, "You're not going anyvhere until I'm sure you're alright."

Spy grabbed Medic's wrist in preparation to snap it, "Get your hands off me, doctor"

A giant hand grabbed each man's collar and pulled them apart, "Stop acting like leettle babies."

Medic glared at his captor, "Heavy, put me down, I'm not a child who needs scolding."

Heavy set Spy on the floor and gently nudged him toward the door, "Is time for sandwiches, doctor."

Spy jolted slightly as the door shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, both unsure and grateful for whatever it was Heavy had just done.

As gracefully as he could on unsteady legs, Spy walked to his personal smoking room and collapsed into an armchair. He looked to the side table and couldn't help but attempt a smile when he saw the half used pack of cigarettes sitting on the smooth wood. He snatched up the pack, drew out one of the precious cigarettes and brought it to his lips. Using a lighter from his pocket, he lit the end and inhaled deeply. Instantly, his body relaxed as warm smoke filled his lungs.

Spy exhaled to allow the smoke's gray tendrils to curl toward the ceiling. Two out of seven days completely wasted. Time was ticking down to RED's offer's deadline and all he'd done was taken a few pathetic shots at the BLU Spy. If he was going to succeed, he was going to have to act quickly and professionally. A well placed series of swift back stabs should put the younger spy back in his place.

Spy took another drag of his cigarette. The move with the lethal injection had been cheap and childish. It was something he'd expect from a sniper playing spy, not something he'd expect from an assassin he'd personally trained. Furthermore, where had he acquired a lethal injection? Most likely, he stole it from the lax BLU Medic. That imbecile wouldn't even bat an eye if respawn went off line, let alone if his medical cabinets turned up a few items short. That begged the question, though, of wheather or not the BLU Spy had stolen anything else from the doctor.

Rather suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over him that was nearly strong enough to cause his fingers to give out and drop the cigarette. Spy reached over and snuffed the cigarette in an ash tray. He couldn't help it, the few days of death were starting to take their toll on him. With a sigh, he stood and made a move for the door. Before he could get half way to his destination, his legs gave out and sent him falling straight for the coffee table as he blacked out.

* * *

 **Sicily, Italy. Christmas Eve, 1955**

Two servants were hastily shoved aside as Benigna Picaro raced to embrace her son in a bone crushing hug.

"Philippe! You finally came home for Christmas!"

Philippe wriggled his arms free and returned the hug with a less deadly intensity, "I'm sorry Mamme, I was busy all the other times."

She gave the side of his head a quick smack, "That's no excuse. It's Christmas, I always need my babies home for Christmas."

She peered over his shoulder, "And who, dare I ask, is this?"

Philippe looked back at his mentor as he stood calmly in a crisp gray suit, "Uh, eh, he-"

Mons. Dufort stepped forward and extended his hand to Benigna, "My name is Antoine. I'm a friend of Philippe's. Since I was staying in Italy, he insisted I not spend Christmas alone, and join him in visiting all of you."

Benigna broke into a smile and shoved aside his hand to pull him into a hug, "The more the merrier! You're always welcome at the Picaro manor."

Philippe watched as Dufort slipped easily from Benigna's hold, "Thank you madame. I'm glad to have as hospitable a host as you."

Benigna blushed before she turned to go down the hall, "Come, come, you two. Everyone just sat down for dinner."

Philippe groaned, "Everyone? Does that mean Serafino and his hoard are here?"

This time it was Dufort's turn to deliver a quick smack to Philippe's head, "Philippe, that's no way to speak of your family."

Benigna chuckled as a group of servants opened the dining room doors.

Sitting around a large rectangular table loaded with fresh platters of food was Philippe's father, Emilio, Serafino, his pregnant wife and their seven children.

Philippe braced himself for the ridicule he'd receive from Serafino and his children over his pale skin and lean frame, but it never came. Instead, a wave of tension swept between his father, his brother, and his mentor.

Philippe shot his mother a confused glance. Benigna replied with a subtle shrug.

The palpable tension hung in the air until it was broken by one of Serafino's sons loudly exclaiming, "Daddy, why is that guy's head on fire?"

Serafino let out a booming laugh as Philippe's face turned as red as his hair, "That's what happens when you make a deal with the devil, Dario"

"Let's just have dinner," Philippe grumbled as he seated himself.

Dufort and Benigna sat on opposite sides of Philippe.

Benigna beamed, "I'm so happy my family is sitting at my dinner table for Christmas Eve."

"Who is he?" Emilio growled, nodding once to Dufort.

He responded coolly, "My name is Antoine. I'm a friend of Philippe's. He invited me here for Christmas."

"Why that's nice, Phil. No one should have to spend Christmas alone," Serafino's wife chirped.

"Even so, darling," Serafino said, "It's unbecoming to have French scum dine at our table."

"Please, he's not doing anything wrong, you're just-"

"We need to say grace," Benigna announced.

Philippe took her hand in his, "Yes, let's."

Throughout grace and serving, Philippe divided his attention between glancing at Serafino, Emilio and Dufort. He couldn't figure out what caused the two Picaros to give the assassin such venomous stares. To Philippe's knowledge, they'd never met before and whatever the problem was, was beyond his comprehension.

Emilio stabbed a cut of steak and loaded it onto his plate, "So, _Antoine_ , what do you do for a living?"

Dufort set his hands gingerly on the edge of the table, "I work as a German-French-Italian translator."

"And how long have you been doing that, exactly?"

Dufort stared down Emilio with a courage Philippe had never had, "Five years come spring. I was a factory worker manufacturing telephone casings before then."

Emilio stared back with a growing sense of suspicion, "Really? And how did you come to meet my son?"

"A meeting in which I happened to be translating for one of his coworkers."

Emilio's voice gained a harsher edge, "Who is?"

Benigna leaned around Philippe, "Antoine, you haven't eaten a thing. Are you feeling alright?"

Emilio shot her a look that warned her against offering help.

Dufort turned to Benigna as she ignored her husband, "Actually, madame, jet lag seems to have stolen my appetite."

Benigna smiled warmly, "That's quite alright. Come, I'll get you a place to stay. We have too many empty rooms in this house."

As soon as the two were out of the dining room, Emilio turned to Serafino, "We'll talk after our meal."

Serafino gave a firm nod.

Meanwhile, Philippe traced a cavatelli through its sauce with his fork, feeling more out of place amongst his family than ever.

* * *

 **BLU Base; Sawmill**

 **1:30 AM, Day 5**

Spy woke early the next morning to the click of a revolver pressed against his temple.

"Philippe Picaro?" The rough voice of the gun's owner said.

Spy casually turned his head to the barrel of the revolver, "Yes."

"Prove it."

Spy sighed and slowly eased the mask from his face.

The messenger smirked at the revelation of Spy's bright red hair, "Hah, here you are, runt."

Spy hissed softly at the designation as he caught the red folder tossed to him, "Go to hell, Dario."

Dario chuckled and returned his revolver to its holster, "Good luck Piccolo Picaro."

Spy grumbled under his breath as Dario walked out, "It's Philippe."

With a satisfying pop in his back, Spy stretched and sat up to read the folder in his hand. He reached over to the bedside table and flicked on a small, circular lamp. Stifling a yawn, Spy propped open the folder on his legs. From within, he drew out the strangest assortment of documents he'd ever seen. Everything from building deeds to forged passports lay between the red papers. At first, he didn't really notice any sort of consistency between the documents and human profiles aside from his father's handwriting scribbled across them. Then, he started to connect the dots. Not only was nearly every single person in the folder French, but they were all tied to one specific ring of organized crime known simply as The Guild.

A bubble of hatred formed in Spy's chest. Not only were they all enemies of his family, but he'd had several close encounters with a handful of their hit men. To make matters worse, many of the profiles had a red stamp that spelled out in bold capitals; RESISTANCE. Just the sight of the bastards made his skin crawl. Then, he flicked to a profile that made his blood run cold. Staring back at him were the inexorable gray eyes of Françoir Jean-Antione Dufort.

Minutes passed by in a heavy silence as Spy tried to process the information before him. It was too much to take in. Françoir was his mentor, his superior, and his friend. He'd never done anything to wrong Spy, nor had he ever shown any signs of being against his family.

Spy buried his face in his hands as realization hit him. That was why Christmas had been so awkward.

Spy lowered his hand and ran his thumb over the file's scratched out name. Perhaps there was something in the extended file that would prove Dufort wasn't like the others. Slowly, he turned the page.

The first thing he saw in the extended file was a page of notes from his father. Spy skimmed right past the page of notes. Nothing his father noted would be of much help. Emilio had likely gone on a long rant about a minor pickpocketing affair or something small like that.

Just behind that page was a section of German documents under the label Bauvorhaben Übermensch. Spy glanced at the first page and immediately turned away. What was left of the burned page was a picture of a bloodied hand missing all of its fingernails. With a grimace on his face, Spy slid his hand over the picture so he could read the Italian translations written in above the German notes.

 _The subject has refused to... excellent testing opportunity... regenerative formula using...result yielded failure shown at left._

Spy brought his father's page of notes back up and covered the lab notes. He bit his lip as he quickly read through to pick out essential information regarding the German report.

 _Known to be captured late 1943 during investigation for French Resistance._

 _German reports show usage for test subject in SS labs. Purpose: pain responses and the negation thereof. Possible psychological trauma as result._

 _Caused the destruction of lab in 1947 also resulted in escape. Current location unknown._

From there, Spy moved on to read the rest of the information in the note. The more he read, the darker his expression became. Every piece of information was brand new to him. Dufort had never bothered to tell him any of this. For every time he'd said he trusted Spy, he'd meant with everything but information. To make matters worse, all the stories Dufort had told him were lies. In fact, Spy would have bet his mentor hadn't grown up in Paris as he'd so often claimed.

Spy let out a soft whine. Dufort had always asked questions about Spy's life and family, and Spy had always answered everything truthfully. He'd always thought they were simply talking as friends, now he realized the questions were intended to gather information for The Guild, and, like an unsuspecting mouse to a trap, he'd taken the bait and unknowingly become the informant for those who'd hurt his family.

Spy took a deep breath. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as his mind made it out to be. Perhaps everything would be just fine if he found some piece of information that proved Dufort hadn't been passing everything Spy had said to The Guild.

Then, he saw it, a singular sentence that left him staring blankly at the page, wishing the words would vanish.

 _Primary suspect of three considered possible assassins responsible for the murder of Benigna Picaro._

Reading the words again, Spy felt nothing. No pain, no disgust, not even a tinge of rage, simply nothing. Yet, there was one thing there, a drive to enact justice. He'd been lied to, misled, and misinformed. It was time to correct those wrongs, but on his terms, not those he'd been ignorantly led to believe.

Spy turned back to the German reports, and started reading.

* * *

 **I know I promised Christmas in this chapter, but have Christmas Eve instead! Christmas will be later, heh. Anyway, in the next chapter, it's time for this fic to really earn (and maybe exceed) its T rating. See you all in the next chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5 (for now)

**Though this chapter is not as cringey, graphic, etc as I was originally anticipating, it's still a bit more 'R violence' than I usually include. If you are highly squeamish, I recommend moving on to the next chapter.**

* * *

 **RED Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 5**

Spy climbed up onto a small stack of crates and wedged himself in the shadow between the topmost crate and the roof of the shed. Despite the impending loss, Spy had done far better in battle than he'd expected.

When he'd woken up on the floor for the second time that week, he'd been sure he wouldn't be able to get his weakened body to do much more than stand. To his surprise, though, a bit of food and a bottle of water were all he'd needed to get back to fighting condition. In fact, he'd done shockingly well the whole day. Not only had he managed to destroy the enemy engineer's sentry nest on several occasions, but he'd also managed to sneak in a good dozen or so backstabs on the BLU Spy as a bit of professional revenge for the previous day.

"You've failed!" The Administrator's voice screeched over the RED communicators.

Spy sighed as he felt a pulse of energy emit from the communicator that disabled everything but his knife for the humiliation round. As if loosing wasn't humiliating enough, the Administrator found it in her heart to include an extra 15 minutes after the match ended to allow the winning team to do whatever they pleased to the essentially disarmed losers. Spy usually spent that time holed up in a hiding spot so not to give the enemy the satisfaction of killing him.

On most days, he'd use the time to review the mistakes he'd made on the battlefield. Today, however, he decided to use the time to close his eyes as his energy faded and exhaustion started to take hold.

"Enjoying your nap?"

Spy woke with a start at the words hissed into his ear.

In a cloud of smoke, the BLU Spy materialized atop the crates, right beside the RED.

The BLU smiled, "Hello Françoir. Did you sleep well?"

The RED Spy grabbed the edge of the crate and threw himself off the ledge. He hit the ground and rolled, then reached for his knife only to find the pocket empty.

"Looking for this?" The BLU Spy asked as he dangled a carved dagger in his limp hand. Lazily, he slid off the crate and pocketed the dagger.

"What? You're not going to run?"

The RED Spy stood straight and stared down his counterpart. In his mind's eye, he imagined the only result of running as a bullet to the back of the head.

The BLU made sure to keep adequate distance between himself and his adversary, "Go ahead, run."

Spy weighed his options. He could jump off the edge of the shed platform and disappear in the water. He could also bolt back toward the RED base and risk being killed by another member of BLU. Then again, he figured he'd stand a decent chance in a fist fight against the BLU, assuming he kept it clean, which was highly unlikely.

The BLU Spy sneered, "What's the matter /Monsieur Dufort/? Spy got your tongue?"

He bowed his head and covered his mouth to attempt still his outburst of laughter.

The RED Spy took the opportunity to turn and sprint toward the RED base. He barely made it 10 meters before the BLU Spy grabbed his waist and tackled him.

With astonishing speed, the BLU Spy pinned the RED and sat on his torso. Then, he pulled two identical knives from his coat and stabbed them between the ulna and radius of each of the RED's arms.

Spy gasped and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming as the knives cut through his forearms and buried themselves in the ground.

His captor closed a hand around his throat, "My, what an interesting situation we're in."

Spy stared up into the eyes of his apprentice as his mind worked to calm his racing heart and breath.

The BLU's eyes traced off into the distance with an air of boredom, "Keeping with the silent treatment, are you? Typical. I suppose it's better than hearing you whine. Though, pleas for mercy are always appreciated."

"Oh please."

A sideways smile broke the indifference from the BLU Spy's face, "Ah, you're not mute," he flicked open his butterfly knife, "you honestly had me worried."

Spy repressed the urge to divert his eyes from his captor.

The BLU unpinned his prey's right arm and held its useless fingers in his palm. Delicately, he took the tip of the black glove on the middle finger and tugged. He did the same to the other fingers until he'd separated glove from hand. He turned the hand over to get a good look at the scars making an artwork of lines and pinpricks across pale skin. With the utmost care, he returned the hand to the ground. Using the same level of care, he did the same to the other hand before returning the knives to their pinning positions.

The captor stroked his prey's exposed skin.

"Philippe..." the prey said warily.

"Hmm?"

"If you're going to kill me, please make quick work of it. You're wasting my time"

Philippe flicked his butterfly knife between his fingers, "Kill you? That would be merciful. Why should I show you mercy," he wrenched his prey's right arm free of its knife, "when you failed to do so for my mother?"

"Philippe, we discussed this, I had nothing to do with your mother's assassination."

Philippe brought the tip of his knife just beneath the nail of the hand's index finger, "Yes, and I assume you also had nothing to do with the Guild in France either."

Beneath Philippe's hold, the assassin tensed.

"What, nothing to say?"

In one swift motion, Philippe moved the knife down and peeled away nail from skin.

Françoir barely stifled a scream as his back arched involuntarily to the pain that shot from his finger.

Philippe placed the tip of the knife beneath the next nail, "Let's play a game," he dug the knife beneath the nail and pried it from its bed, "every time you lie to me, I'll punish you."

Meticulously, he ripped off the remaining nails and tossed the hand aside.

Françoir remained as still as possible as Philippe picked up his left hand. To keep calm, he took a series of short breaths through his nose. He'd been through this kind of pain before, he could survive it a second time.

Philippe wiped the blood from his hands onto his pants, "Next question. In what city did you grow up in?"

Françoir searched his memory for the city he'd initially told Philippe, "Paris, France."

"Hmm…convincing, but ultimately wrong."

Philippe took his knife and pulled off Françoir's remaining five finger nails, a hint of a smile forming on his face as he watched blood cling to the nail before breaking off and flowing across his victim's skin.

"How old were you when we first met?"

Françoir's mind raced. Somehow, Philippe had got hold of his personal information, or, at the very least, he was simply going to dish out another punishment no matter what his response was.

"Thirty-three."

Philippe raised an eyebrow, "My, what an interesting answer."

He shifted his hold slightly so he could cut away the sleeves from his enemy's expensive jacket. Taking the left arm in his hands, he set aside his knife and brought out a small battery with two disconnected wires sticking from it. He pulled the left arm up close to his chest. Gingerly, he touched the tips of his fingers to a raised gray scar whose epicenter lay just below the crook of the arm. Philippe took the wire prongs from the battery. Without taking his eyes from his victim's face, he sunk the sharp wire tips into the scar's epicenter. All the while, he felt tension building in Françoir's body as Philippe's finger rested on the switch to allow electricity to flow through the wires.

For the briefest of moments, Philippe thought he saw a flicker of terror cross the Frenchman's face only to vanish beneath a steely façade.

He flipped the switch.

Though the voltage of the battery wasn't much, it sent Françoir instantly struggling to escape Philippe's hold. Every inch of his body screamed in pain. In his mind, memories flashed by like strikes of lightning. Fleeting glimpses of men in white coats with red stains on their arms, children's eyes as they looked for solace amongst doomed strangers, and a young pilot asking for death without a hint of doubt in his being.

Unaware of the memories he dredged up, Philippe laughed harder than he had in years at the pathetic whine coming from his victim's throat. Something about the sound was just so pitiful, he couldn't help but cackle like a mad man.

Once he finally calmed down, he flicked the switch off and pulled the wires from flesh, causing two trails of blood to trail down opposite sides of the arm. Françoir's whine ceased, but his skin continued to tremble as if the metal had never left his being.

Philippe looked down at his victim. He looked so pathetic and broken. Nothing like the calculated serpent of a man he'd once known. In his heart, he felt something he'd never expected to feel from this; exhilaration. Just the thought of his superiority, just to know he was the new master, made his heart quicken and his blood rush. It was a drug, and he was an addict. He craved the feeling more and more the longer he looked at Françoir. For himself, for his family, for his mother, he would have more, and there was nothing in existence with the power to stop him.

Returning the knife to his hold, Philippe tore shirt, vest and suit jacket from Françoir. From the heavens, rain suddenly came down in torrents that bounced off Françoir's skin, cleansing him of the blood drawn from sloppy cuts from a knife.

Philippe eagerly ran his hands along the web of scars coating Françoir's chest until he found the one he was looking for. He set the tip of the knife at the top of a long scar tracing from his victim's diaphragm to his hip. Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he moved the knife along the cut with a hand steady enough to amaze the like of surgeons.

Once the skin was split and blossoming a fissure of crimson, Philippe slid a several capsules of salt from his jacket. He packed the capsules into the exposed flesh and waited.

Water in the blood made quick work of the thin skin of the capsules, allowing them to release their concentrated arsenal. Instantly, Philippe was met with a satisfying shriek and the sound of crackling salt as it tore the water mercilessly from the helpless body.

Philippe leaned his body over Françoir's so he was pressed firmly to the other man's frame. He wouldn't have much time for the last bit, seeing as Françoir was likely to live much longer with the salt eating him from the inside out. Eagerly, he dug his hands beneath the edge of Françoir's mask as his head thrashed wildly from side to side.

Rather abruptly, Philippe was yanked by the back of his collar and launched back into the side of the RED shed.

For several moments, he scrambled about on the wood until he was able to sit up properly. Standing before him was his team's engineer.

The flash from a bolt of lightning cast haunting shadows across the Texan's face, "What the hell do you think you're doin?"

Philippe jumped to his feet, focusing only on the rage coursing through him, "Something I should have done a long time ago."

He charged the engineer, planning to tear into his soft neck with his nails.

From his belt, Engineer drew a wrench and slammed it into his teammate's side. In response, Spy's body appeared to ragdoll and he collapsed into a heap.

Panting, Engineer turned to the wheezing Spy, "That," he pointed to the dying RED, "is not what we do to people, even the enemy."

He swung his wrench like and axe and bashed in the RED's skull.

Spy glared at Engineer, "How dare you! That was my kill."

"I don't care if that was your kill," Engineer roared, "You are not allowed to treat people like that. Not now, not ever, and if I catch you doin somethin like that again, I'll make sure your respawn files disappear. Understand?"

Spy brushed off the edges of his suit, "Indeed."

Engineer returned his wrench to his belt, "Good. Now head on back to base, humiliation's been over for a good ten minutes now."

Spy gave one last glance to the disappearing RED body before slowly walking back to the BLU base.

* * *

 **Just out of curiosity, who do you all believe as to the true account of what happened to Benigna? (I haven't forgotten you, someone. The information you seek can be found on my profile)**


	6. Easier to Forget

**The song played on the record in the second section of this chapter is What's New? by Clifford Brown. I highly recommend listening to it when it comes up in the scene for ambiance.**

* * *

 **RED Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 5**

Heavy watched as Medic made a series of small stitches to close a gash on the wing of one of his beloved doves.

"Heavy," Medic said without looking up from his work, "vould you please go to zhe respawn room and see if Herr Spy has respawned yet? I zhink zhe process is still glitched for him."

Heavy nodded, "Yes doktor."

He rose from his chair and exited Medic's lab. He hoped Spy hadn't respawned still again. It had been difficult to be without a spy for two days. In fact, Heavy hadn't realized it before, but Spy was just as important to the team's success as Medic or Soldier. He'd always thought Spy's job was simply to backstab snipers and occasionally sap a sentry. Slowly, but steadily, Heavy was allowing himself to see the value of his teammate and his jobs.

Heavy pushed open the door to the resupply room, "Spy?"

When no reply came back to him, he moved to the back of the room, where the respawn area was housed. He removed a small wall panel to access the exterior door button. He pushed the green release lever and the door opened with a soft clang.

Heavy replaced the panel and looked inside with his breath held.

Spy's pinstriped jacket lay beside the door with a trail of blood leading from it. Heavy's eyes followed the crimson streak to the back of the room. There, Spy was pressed against the wall with a gory knife clutched in his right hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Blood soaked the once pristine white sleeve of his left arm. His chest rose and fell rapidly and his eyes darted wildly about the room.

Heavy adjusted his position so his body blocked the door, "Spy?"

Spy's body tensed as he tried to backup further into the wall.

"Is ok Spy, Heavy is here to help," Heavy said as he took several steps toward Spy.

Spy raised his knife defensively.

Heavy continued closer, confused. Before him, Spy tensed like a coiled spring until his pupils dilated drastically.

Instantly, Heavy stopped moving. He'd seen that look before on the faces of some of the children he'd met during his time in the gulag.

Steadily, he took a step back and lowered himself into a kneeling position. He pressed his arms to his sides to make himself appear smaller.

"Spy, is me, Heavy. Your teammate. What happened on battlefield is over. Is safe now."

Spy's eyes flicked between Heavy and the door in a frantic attempt to plot an escape route.

Heavy sighed and slipped into his native tongue, "My name is Mikhail. I'm a friend."

Spy didn't seem to relax, but his brow furrowed ever so slightly.

Heavy tried again, "My name is Mikhail, I am your friend."

Spy's eyes refocused halfway, "Who?"

"Mikhail, I am your friend. We work together, here, at the RED base in the United States."

Spy sat still for several minutes as he processed the information. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the wall and his shoulders relaxed.

Heavy smiled, "See, there's nothing to fear here."

Spy lowered himself to the floor as his breathing settled. On his face, the fear that had once been so prominent began to fade back to the assassin's usual indifference.

Heavy let himself switch back into English, "There, is all OK now."

He reached out and put a reassuring hand on Spy's shoulder.

Instantly, the tension returned to Spy's body and he slashed upward with his knife. The result was a deep gash traveling from Heavy's wrist to his elbow.

Heavy recoiled quickly with a cry of pain, "Ok," he said as he cradled his bleeding arm, "no touching. Heavy will keep hands right here whole time. Is promise."

Spy backed against the wall again, the words clearly not getting through to the rational part of his mind.

Heavy sat down in a cross-legged position and pressed his arm to his chest in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, "When I was little, I was afraid of thunder. Each time I heard thunder, bad pictures of bombs dropping on house came into head and made me scared," he closed his eyes, "When I heard thunder, I would run and hide in place that was safe. A place where thunder could not get me. Then, I covered ears and hummed because then I could not hear the scary noises of the thunder. But, I always had friend when there was thunder. My father would always come find me, and say 'is ok Misha, I am here now, you are safe.' For long time, I did not believe him. But, every time he came, thunder did not get me, so he must be telling truth. Soon, I did not fear thunder anymore."

In front of him, he heard a rustling sound as Spy stood to retrieve his coat. Heavy opened his eyes a crack to catch a glimpse of his teammate. Spy watched the ground and held himself in a light hug to try and keep himself from shaking.

Heavy waited until Spy had collected his coat to stand and follow him. In complete silence, they made their way from the respawn room to the personal smoking room Spy'd had installed when he'd first come to the RED team. Spy bee-lined to the counter, where he grabbed a pack of cigarettes in one hand, and a bottle of brandy in the other hand.

As Spy made his way to the chair by the fire, Heavy snatched the two items from his hands.

Spy turned on his heel and adopted a fighting stance.

"Choose one," Heavy said.

Spy raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Is not good to drink and smoke together. Choose one."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realize I entered a conversation with a public service announcement."

Heavy frowned, "Choose one."

Spy sighed and snatched the cigarettes from Heavy's grasp, "You may let yourself out."

Still clutching the brandy, Heavy turned and left the room.

* * *

Once the door clicked shut, Spy drew a cigarette, lit it, and brought it to his lips.

In his mind, memories played over and over again like a scratched record. Every memory of pain, of torture, of mal treatment, of _him_ , rushed back to him to make his skin crawl, his scars burn, and his mind believe that somehow he'd been dragged back to-

No, he had to stop. His thoughts were practically falling over each other to get to the forefront of his conscious.

" _Kill me"_

 _The Frenchman looked up from the bleeding stitches on his stomach to look at his British cell mate, "What?"_

" _I said kill me, please."_

" _Why?"_

 _The Brit crawled into the meager light of the cell, earning him a gag from the Frenchman. On the pilot's back, two bones covered in half developed sinew protruded from his spine like white tumors. Across his body, bubbles of pus holding what appeared to be small down feathers pulsed and oozed in a combination of yellow slime and blood._

" _Kill me," he whispered._

 _The Frenchman watched in horror, or disbelief. Which was more true, he would never really know._

 _The Brit lurched forward, causing blood to flow from rough black stitches, "I said kill me dammit!"_

" _I-"_

" _Kill me! Kill me, please, just kill me," a strangled gurgling noise mixed with his words, "Kill me!" he dragged himself closer to the Frenchman, "Kill me, kill me, kill me."_

 _With each passing syllable, blood bubbled up and dribbled from the edges of his mouth until a steady stream flowed down his chin._

 _He grabbed onto the worn rag passing for cloths on the Frenchman, "For the love of God man, kill me."_

 _The Frenchman looked down into the hopeless eyes of the Brit. He was met only with a despair that knew death was the only escape from pain._

 _Delicately, the Frenchman laid his hands on the sticky flesh of the Brit's neck. In one quick motion, he…_

Spy jumped away from the lit fireplace as flames licked at the fabric of his gloves. In his episode, he'd ended up on the floor with his hands in the fire, thinking of him. It shouldn't have been possible, he'd erased nearly every memory from there. Erased every memory of G…no, he wasn't going to think that name again. That wasn't who he was, at least, not anymore.

Spy looked down at the packet of cigarettes. They weren't going to cut it. He needed something stronger, something that would make the memories fade away faster. Something that would stop him from reverting to _him_.

Wearily, Spy moved to the hidden panel in the floor. Inside was an assortment, of revolvers, ammunition, knives, passports, and a six pack of hard cider he'd let Demoman store in case Medic decided to host his own little prohibition. With steady hands, Spy pulled up the case and set it on the floor beside him. The first bottle he grabbed was unlabeled and stopped with a cork. He popped off the top, and brought the bottle to his lips.

 _Am I really going to do this?_ He thought, _Am I really going to lose myself in drink like every other pathetic survivor?_

 _Of course not,_ he reassured himself, _you won't become lost as they were. You're a professional, you would never allow yourself to stoop to such lows. Besides, it's only one drink._

* * *

 **BLU Base; Sawmill**

 **Day 5**

Spy carefully ran his thumb along the labels of the cigars in his collection, "Tell me doctor, do you enjoy your work?"

Medic leaned over a large sheet of linen like paper where he was filling in the details of a drawing of the human muscular structure, "I rather do, yes."

"Do you ever enjoy seeing people in pain?"

Medic's pen slowed to a stop against the paper, "Why are you asking this?"

Spy selected a Cuban cigar from its Italian brethren and rolled it between his fingers, "I'm merely attempting to deduce the number of sadistic mental cases on this team."

"Oh really? Then let me ask you this, Spy," he stood and produced a pen knife from his pocket, "What sort of a man laughs as he delivers a blow? Or takes pride in the trauma he's caused to another? Or who smiles at the sight of the blood his blade drew?"

Spy lit the end of his cigar and watched as the doctor pricked the end of his finger with the knife.

Medic strode to Spy, "I saw your little episode today during the humiliation round, so I suggest you reconsider exactly who you tag as a sadistic mental case."

Medic touched the edge of Spy's suit, leaving behind a bead of blood. The doctor then turned on his heel, collected his supplies, and left the lounge.

Spy looked down at his suit, all the while keeping his cigar clenched firmly between his teeth to prevent it from falling. The bead on the blue fabric had already lost its perfection and spread out to form a shapeless splotch of dark purple.

Spy puffed on his cigar. He'd been wrong about Medic. The doctor only came across with an air of indolence and disregard. Beneath that, he was ultimately a man of science. He liked to do and say thing that would cause reactions he could use to learn not only about his teammates, but about human nature in general. He was certainly someone Spy would have to keep an eye on.

Spy made his way lazily to the record player. From a neatly kept storage shelf, he chose a record and set it on the turntable. It was one of Demoman's old records labeled _Clifford Brown with Strings_. Spy grabbed the needle and lighted it on the edge of the record. After a moment of silence, a slow, wordless tune began to play.

"You certainly have an interesting taste in music."

Spy looked to the door.

Standing in the entryway was a slightly swaying Françoir. His jacket and vest were missing, exposing his rumpled and untucked shirt to the world. On his left, arm, a large patch of damp blood spread across the left arm of his white under shirt.

Philippe took the cigar from his mouth to allow a ring of smoke to float to the ceiling, "The record isn't mine."

Françoir stumbled forward, nearly missing the back of the chair he grabbed for support, "A likely alibi."

Philippe's eyes slowly scanned the other man, "I know you're not simply here to discuss music. Have you come back for another taste of revenge?"

Françoir fell forward again, "I wish you'd stop bringing that up. I already told you I wasn't involved."

Philippe leaned against the table supporting the record player, "I was a fool to believe your lies the first time. Since then, I've been shown better."

The words seemed to roll carelessly over Françoir's tongue as he mumbled, "I don't understand why you care so much."

Philippe lowered his head and chuckled, "You know, not everyone has mommy issues."

Françoir's face settled into the first recognizable expression of the night, anger, "At least I knew my mother."

"I'm not sure if you're aware how entertaining you are when you're drunk."

"You never have been good at asking the right questions, have you?" Françoir said as he made his way over to lean on Philippe's shoulder, "I doubt you even understand what I'm talking about."

Philippe tilted his head to face Françoir, "It's impossible to understand you when you don't articulate."

"I'm speaking of your Irish whore of a mother."

Philippe delivered a powerful backhand slap that sent the other man sprawling into an undignified heap, "How dare speak of my mother like that."

A spasm of laughter racked Françoir's body until he was left curled up and panting on the floor. He took a series of deep breaths, "You really don't know, do you? Your mother was a maid in the Picaro manor. After poor Benigna lost her second child, your father-"

"Get out."

Françoir flopped onto his back, "Hear me out. It's no coincidence Serafino is so much older than you-"

"I said get out," Philippe yelled with his finger jabbed at the door.

"Didn't you ever question why you were the only ginger Italian?"

Philippe drew his revolver and pointed it at Françoir, "Get out before I decide to do so for you."

Françoir pried himself from the floor and made his way back to the door frame, "If you don't believe me, you should ask Serafino about-"

"Out!"

Finally, Françoir stumbled from the room.

Philippe collapsed into an armchair as the slow music from the record player spread through the lounge to fill the silence. From there, he simply sat and listened to the record until the needle hit the interior cover and stalled. At that point, he picked up the phone from the table and dialed the number of his American bound family.

The line picked up to silence.

"Have a jet ready in an hour," Philippe said, "I need to reach Sicily as quickly as possible."

"Yes sir."

Without so much as a goodbye, both ends hung up their lines.

* * *

 **Hey! You all want to see some amazing art for this fic? Then head on over to my tumble (mythical1nk) and look under the tag Lost Acquaintance!**


	7. Time to say Goodbye

**Wow, so, I apologize for the extremely long wait on this chapter. I had a ton of stuff to deal with in school and life, then summer hit and I had no desire to do anything, so, yeah. Anyways, I'm feeling much more into my normal writing habits now, so I should ba posting reguarly again! Again, I'm sorry for the long wait, but I hope this makes up for it to some degree.**

* * *

 **Sicily, Christmas, 1955**

 **3:24 AM**

At the sound of gunshot, Françoir sprang from bed, swiped his revolver from the bedside table, and moved to press his shoulder against the door frame. He nudged the door open before he slipped into the hall with his revolver raised. There, he did a brief check of the area, then crept toward the source of the shot.

After just a few steps, he found the source of the shot, or rather, its result.

Lying face up on the floor with a look of pure shock etched into her features was Benigna Picaro. On her chest, a circle of blood bloomed from a single dark hole.

From all around, he heard the patter of bare feet on hardwood as the others came to see the source of the noise.

Serafino was the first to arrive, "What was that sound? Antoine, did you…" his eyes came to rest on the body of his mother.

He dropped to his knees, "Mamme?"

He scooped up her torso to hold her in his arms, "Mamme, speak to me, please…"

Françoir backed up and lowered his revolver. Behind him, Emillio pushed his way forward.

"What is the meaning of this, who's firing guns in my house at…" His face paled at the sight of Benigna.

Serafino looked up at his father with tears in his eyes, "She's…she's dead."

Françoir felt Philippe pull up behind him, "Mamme, is everything alright?"

Emillio turned on his heel and pointed at Françoir and Philippe, "You. You're responsible for this."

Philippe glanced around Emillio and his eyes widened, "Mamme!" He rushed to her side.

Françoir gestured to himself, "I am hardly responsible for this."

Emilio clenched his fists and swung at Françoir.

Françoir ducked beneath the fist, then sidestepped the second punch aimed lower.

"Get out of my house!" Emilio roared, "Out! Get out, now!"

He picked up Philippe by the back of his shirt and threw him at Françoir, "And take this traitorous dog with you. Now, get out!"

"You can't throw me out, that's my mother, I can't leave her like this," Philippe said.

Emilio lowered his voice, "I should kill you now…. I suggest you leave before I decide to change my mind."

Françoir nudged Philippe's arm, "Let's go."

Desperation appeared on Philippe's face, "I-I can't leave her."

Françoir started walking away.

Philippe's shoulders fell and he followed Françoir out into the rain. Once outside, he fell to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and cried.

Françoir knelt down, "Philippe?"

The younger man sucked in a shaky breath, "She's dead. My mother…she's dead."

"Yes."

A fresh wave of sobs brought Philippe to the ground in a fetal position. Cold rain fell down round him, soaking his silk nightwear and making him shiver violently. Yet, he didn't seem to notice.

Françoir moved beneath the awning of covered bench. He drew a balaclava from his coat, then used some of the pouring rain to wash the thick coat of makeup from his face. With a sigh, he slid on the mask and adjusted it so its base disappeared beneath the collar of his suit. He looked up to find Philippe standing before him, his eyes glued to the cobbled bricks beneath his feet.  
"I don't know what to do," Philippe whispered.  
Françoir glanced down the street "There's a decent hotel not far from here, why don't we stay there for the night."

Philippe nodded and fell in line behind Françoir as they started off down the street.

On the way down, Françoir glanced constantly at Philippe. He didn't want the poor boy to have another breakdown in the middle of the street. Besides, he knew how difficult something of such a nature was and how much more difficult it was made alone.

Once in the hotel lobby, Philippe busied himself with the pictures on the wall while Françoir took care of the room.

"Looks like you two went through hell," the receptionist said as he flicked through available rooms.

Françoir glanced again to Philippe, "Indeed."

"Mind if I ask what happened?"

"Yes," Françoir took the room key from the desk, "I rather do mind."

He turned toward the elevator and motioned for Philippe to follow. Philippe drifts over, into the elevator as his hands attempt to stifle a yawn.

Françoir leaned in, pushing the button for the third floor. The elevator dinged softly as it made one of the slowest three floor ascents in history. As the door opened, Françoir let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Inside the room, Philippe hastily stripped himself of his velvet nightwear and crawled beneath the covers of the bed.

Meanwhile, Françoir unbuttoned his suit jacket, thinking bitterly about how he'd left his shoes back at the Picaro Manor in his haste and likely ruined a $50 pair of socks walking down the muddy street. He then gingerly laid his jacket out across the radiator and sliped into bed, suit, and all.

Just as Françoir closed his eyes, Philippe rolled onto his back.

"Françoir?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you kill my mother?"

"No, of course not."

The room became quite for several minutes.

"So what my father said…"

"Is false, yes."

Philippe let out a relieved sigh, "Thank you."

"For what?"

When Philippe didn't respond, Françoir turned his neck so he could glimpse the other man. Sure enough, he'd fallen fast asleep as if nothing had ever been said.

Françoir turned his attention back to the wall in front of him, and stared at it for a solid hour, thinking, before exhaustion eventually dragged him into a restless sleep.

* * *

 **Sicily**

 **Saturday**

"Serafino, it's been an awfully long time since we last met. Tell me, how's your family?"

In the dim light from his desk lamp, Serafino shifted a file folder aside and rested his hand on the pistol beneath, "We're doing well, thank you."

Philippe strode up behind him, "Excellent."

"What brings you here today, Philippe?"

Philippe shrugged, "Information."

"Information?" Serafino brought the pistol to rest in his lap as he turned his chair around to face Philippe, "I thought the file I sent you would be more than enough."

"Oh it was enough," Philippe said, "I'm here for a different kind of information."

Serafino tightened his grip on his pistol, "What kind of information?"

"A simple question," Philippe said, "Am I a Picaro?"

Serafino gave a low chuckle, "Unless you've forgotten your name, yes."

"Allow me to rephrase. Was I _born_ a Picaro?"

"Why would you even ask such a ridiculous question?"

Swiftly, Philippe drew a revolver and pressed it beneath his brother's jawline, "Perhaps you misheard me. Was I born a Picaro?"

Serafino took several deep, steady breaths as he considered his options, "What did you hear?"

"A rumor concerning a particular maid of Emilio's estate."

Serafino's grip on his pistol loosened, "How did you find out?"

"That's not important."

"Very well," Serafino said as he crossed his arms, "I assume you came to see if I have any information?"

"Yes."

Serafino pushed the revolver away from his jaw, "Please take a seat."

Philippe reluctantly lowered himself into the nearest armchair, "Tell me what you know."

Serafino leaned forward so his elbows were propped onto his knees, "I don't remember much from the time you were born, but I do remember Mami and father fighting. They'd get into these long yelling matches about a baby. Father wanted to get rid of it. Mami said it was his responsibility. He said he had nothing to do with it. They were a mess. Only later did I find out father had been having affairs with several of our staff. One night with a maid had gone awry and resulted in an unwelcome and unexpected little someone nine months later."

Philippe fixed his gaze on a distant point on the wall, "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you were born illegitimately, Philippe. Father impregnated a poor Irish wench of a woman, you were the result. The only reason you're still alive is because Mami wouldn't let father kill you."

Philippe sat completely still with his face betraying not even the slightest hint of emotion.

"I thought you'd have figured it out by now, given," Serafino gestured to Philippe's figure, "Everything."

Philippe's eyes moved up to meet his brother's, "I'd always assumed there was something undesirable about me. I simply hadn't expected this."

Serafino studied the other man carefully, "Are you considering removing yourself from the family?"

Philippe stood and moved over to a built in shelf along the wall of the room. Absentmindedly, he ran his hand across the books and trinkets adorning the shelf. His fingers stopped on a family portrait and he brought up to the light to get a better look at Serafino's family. Once he was satisfied, he set the picture down, "Yes, I am."

"Alright," Serafino said, "I'll take care of the paperwork for you. In the meantime, you may return to the states. In a few short hours you'll be completely cut off from any relation to the Picaro family."

Philippe nodded and extended his right hand, "Thank you, Serafino."

Serafino stood, took the hand in his, and pulled Philippe into a tight hug, "Goodbye my brother. I hope when we meet again, it's not as enemies."

Philippe nodded against his brother's shoulder, "Goodbye Serafino."

The two men pulled apart with the younger doing his best to remain composed. After an exchange of firm nods, the two separated, and Serafino was left alone once again.

He waited until Philippe's footsteps stopped echoing down the hall before picking up the phone.

"Papa?"

There was a cough from the other end of the line, "Serafino, my boy! What has you calling at my lunch hour?"

"It's Philippe."

He could hear the smile in his father's voice, "He's been eliminated?"

"No. Dufort didn't have the courage to kill him. However, he did let slip Philippe's illegitimacy."

"And?"

"He wants to be cut off from the family."

Emilio laughed, "Excellent. I'll have his files destroyed immediately. Soon it'll be as if we never even had to deal with that pathetic leech."

"Indeed."

"Oh Serafino," Emilio sighed, "this is indeed a happy day. Please, come see me at my home. There's celebrating to be done!"

"Of course papa. I'll be there soon."

* * *

 **Teufort Airport**

 **Saturday**

When Philippe stepped off the main terminal of the Teufort Airport, he was met by the two men who'd driven him there earlier in the day.

He smiled, "Hello gentlemen. We'll be returning to the location we left from. No stops."

One of the men stepped forward, "I'm sorry sir, but, we won't be doing that."

"What?"

Together, the men attacked Philippe. The first one grabbed hold of his shoulders and began stripping him of his suit while the second man emptied the contents of the small briefcase he'd brought.

"What the hell are you doing?" Philippe screamed as his jacket was stripped from him.

"Don't struggle. You'll live longer that way."

Philippe stopped struggling, knowing very well what these men _could_ do to him given the chance. He then found himself grateful the airport was deserted as he was stripped down to his underwear, then given a rather uninvited pat down.

The taller of the two men handed Philippe an oversized t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops and a ten dollar bill, "Here, this is all you need to get home."

Reluctantly, Philippe took the clothing and dressed himself. By the time he'd finished, the other men had run off along with all his belongings. Philippe sighed. This had to be a result of him leaving the family. He supposed it was better than being killed, but still, there was something about having next to nothing that was unsettling.

Wearily, Philippe made his way out in front of the airport to the nearest pay phone. On the reasoning of pure speculation, he dug his hands into his pockets and was rewarded with the clink of change that he used to dial up the BLU base.

"Hello?"

"Hello Demo," Philippe said.

"Oh! Good evening Spy. What has you calling at such a late hour of the night?"

Philippe twisted the cord of the phone between his fingers, "I need you to pick me up from the airport."

"What, did your ride give you the slip?"

"Yes."

"I see," Demo said, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

The line disconnected, and Philippe made his way to a long since closed kiosk selling newspapers, magazines and an assortment of romance novels. He selected a Rolex catalog, then sat on a nearby bench to read and wait.

Just as he reached the end of the catalog, a white, two door Jeep pulled up to the curb. Spy rolled up the catalog, stuck it under his arm, and slid into the passenger's seat.

Demo glanced over from the driver's seat, "Holy hell, Spy?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to you?"

Spy rested his elbow against the lip of the window and used it to prop up his head as he watched the world outside, "It's a long story."

Demo nodded as he began driving, "You gave us back at base quite a fright when you up and left last night without telling anyone."

"Is that so?"

"Ahy. Medic thought he'd scared you off, or something along those lines. It's hard to tell, his English isn't too great. Soldier thinks you've gone AWOL, and Heavy thought you'd finally died."

Spy chuckled, "They really shouldn't make such a fuss. I'm a Spy, it's in my nature to disappear."

"For the record, _I_ wasn't worried about you at all. I know you can handle yourself."

Spy nodded against his arm.

For the next several minutes, the two mercenaries drove on in silence as each mulled over their own thoughts.

Tired of his inner voice, Demo took a deep breath, "The sky's beautiful tonight."

Spy tilted his head back to validate Demo's claim. Up above, the inky black of night shone brilliantly with a symphony of light weaving delicately through the milky fringes of the galaxy. He slowly scanned the sky, his well-trained mind taking it all in and holding it like a steel trap.

"Spy?" Demo asked.

The assassin dared not take his eyes off the sky for fear of losing the scene, "I've never seen the sky like this before."

"Really?"

"Yes. I've always lived in an urban area, where sky watching is a rather drab spectacle."

Demo gave a soft chuckle "You need to get out more."

Spy watched as the light from the approaching base slowly blotted out the night's beauty, "Perhaps I do."

Demo returned his attention to the road as he maneuvered into the garage. He opened the car door for Spy, and they made their way up to Spy's personal room.

Demo yawned, "Well, I should really be getting to bed..."

Spy grabbed the doorknob, "Wait."

He pushed the door open. Inside, every drawer, cabinet and hidden floor panel had been opened and stripped of its belongings. Each and every paper, article of clothing, weapon, trinket, and document was gone without a trace. Even his passport, social security card and proof of citizenship were missing.

All he could do then, was laugh. It started low and soft, then grew until Spy found himself doubled over, clutching at the pain in his sides.

Demo looked on from the doorway, "Eh, are you doing alright?"

"I-I-I'm fine. Just...I'm sorry," Spy took several deep breaths, "It's just amusing."

Demo raised an eyebrow, "What is?"

"This. The airport, Sicily, all of it. It's hilarious. I mean, I have nothing. What could be funnier? I abandoned my family, lost all my possessions, and I likely don't appear in any records."

 _And,_ he added to himself, _I destroyed my relationship with the one man who could help me recover._

Demo took a look around the room and shrugged, "I dunno what to tell you... Would you like me to give you something? Food, clothing, money, just name it and I'm here for you."

Spy shook his head, "Though I appreciate the offer, I feel inclined to decline. I'll be paid in a few days, then I'll have everything I need."

"Alright then," Demo said with a nod, "but if you need me, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you."

Slowly, Demo backed out of the room, closing the door behind himself.

For the second time in his life, Spy had no idea what to do. Without resources, there was really nothing he could do. Yet, he didn't feel helpless. There still had to be something he could do. The voice in his head told him he could still take the desperate option. He'd look like a fool, but, at least he'd be back on his feet.

Spy made sure Demo's footsteps had faded, then darted downstairs to the private call room for the base. There, he dialed a well memorized number and waited anxiously as the first ring sounded from the phone.


	8. A New Deal

**Hello! I really do apologize for how late this is. I meant to get it out before I moved, but that didn't happen, so here I am now. This chapter was originally going to be entirely different from how it is now, but I switched it to this as it fit better and let it stand alone, so I apologize on the length. The next chapter will be longer for sure. Anyway, thank you so much for reading this far! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Teufort Highway

1:05 Sunday

The RED Spy jumped slightly at the sound of his phone ringing, causing him to swerve slightly on the road. He tightened his grip on the wheel, then took a slow breath in through his nose. Briefly, his eyes flicked to his phone on the passenger's seat. When he saw the number, he reached over and flipped the phone face down. A petty show of distaste, perhaps, but he was far from being in the mood for civility in privacy.

He returned his focus on the road ahead in just enough time to see a sign for Bilious Gorge appear along a narrow crack between two massive plateaus. Spy slowed his car to a stop just outside the sign so it was hidden by a collection of rock formations. Several minutes later, he found himself staring at a short length of chain link fence topped with electrified wire and coated in warning signs. He touched the chain gate with the rubber tips of his gloves. With a bit of effort, he pushed open the gate.

Standing before him a few meters away was a pack of guard dogs chained in front of a boarded mineshaft entrance. Simply going invisible would not fool the dogs. They could smell him, and they knew very well that he was not welcome here. Spy took a deep breath. He knew how to get past the dogs, or at least, he had a hunch of how.

From his pocket, Spy produced a small clicker he'd pickpocketed from one of the Administrator's TV men. He pressed the button at its center, and the dogs instantly relaxed into sitting positions, allowing him to walk past them and slip between two boards to access the mine shaft within.

Dim lights illuminated an aging dirt tunnel snaking down to an equally aged cage lift. He pressed a small button hidden beneath an artificial outcropping on the wall and waited. Ten minutes later, the lift appeared. He chuckled softly to himself when he saw the access panel to return down. It was a simple matter, really. Just jimmy open the front panel with a knife, pop off the security seal to be replaced, move around a few wires, and activate the recognition mechanism.

The door dinged and the lift began its descent. On the long ride down, Spy busied himself with replacing the panel and readying his appearance for what lie ahead. Once the lift opened on the ground, three men in tan trench coats and hats stared back at him. They seemed surprised, but not ready for action. They had been trained to keep out RED and BLU mercenaries. Not gentlemen dressed in black suits worthy of a classic Bond villain. As such, they stepped past spy and made their first mistake; they turned their backs to him.

The man closest to Spy was delivered a quick stab to the back and a practiced turn of the blade to sever the fragile spinal cord between vertebrae. The second man dropped to the floor as a dose of lethal tranquilizer was shot into his collar from a sleek silver pistol. The third man received a slit of the throat followed by a knife driven into his spine once he doubled over.

Spy returned his knife and pistol to his jacket before muttering, "All in a day's work."

After a short walk down a stainless steel hallway. Spy found himself in a massive cylindrical room humming with hundreds of computer terminals. Nestled at the center of the mess of technology, was a single elevator tube leading deep into the earth.

Spy strode toward the elevator, then stopped. Between the ground he stood on and the elevator was a rather wide stretch of space that dropped down to an abyss. His eyes traveled up to the elevator tube. The surface of the tube was smooth and flawless, with no clear means of entry save for a warning light and the thin outline of a retracting door.

Spy looked to the door, then to his cloak and dagger. With a soft sigh, he activated it, and waited.

Nearly an hour passed before his patience paid off. Despite the time passage, he was fully alert and ready when the door of the tube slid open.

Miss. Pauling stepped out onto a platform that stretched across the abyss. She had her nose buried in her clipboard, and failed to notice the faint breeze caused by the invisible man that drifted past her.

The elevator door hissed shut, narrowly missing clipping the heel of Spy's shoes.

At that point, she had to know. The Administrator was a smart woman. She had to know of the spy in her own base. With that known, Spy began to partake in one of his favorite pastimes as the elevator descended; mulling over possible future conversations. Before he could even get through the second possibility, the elevator stopped and opened to reveal the Administrator in her high backed chair.

She turned toward him "I was wondering when you'd be sent to kill me."

Spy allowed his cloak to drop and stepped from the elevator "Madame, if I'd come to kill you, then I assure you one of us would already be dead."

"Indeed," she lit a cigarette, "then why _are_ you here?"

"I'd like to discuss the deal your henchman proposed to me roughly one week ago."

The Administrator paused, her cigarette just touching the edges of her lips "What deal?"

Spy hesitated. The Administrator was not one to forget something so important. That is, if she had known about it. And if she didn't know about it, then the problem certainly stretched beyond a simple change in pay.

The Administrator leaned forward so her elbows rested on the arms of her chair, "I'd like to propose a new deal. I'll investigate this 'deal' matter, and you," she extended a Manila folder to him, "will do your job."

Spy took the folder. It felt heavy in his hands, likely it was full of documents. He flicked it open. A contract met his eyes.

"Madam, I don't believe this work is within my pay grade."

A smirk tugged at the edge of the Administrator's lips, "Consider it a bonus."

Miss. Pauling grabbed the wrist of Spy's right hand from behind and pressed his palm against a metal plate.

He hissed softly as the metal singed the glove from his hand to imprint the patterns on his fingers.

Miss. Pauling smiled sympathetically, "Sorry."

Spy felt a needle prick the back of his neck.

"I'll see you here again in three days." Said the Administrator.

A few moments later, he blacked out.


End file.
